Ba-seldarine coward, acidly, as the hunched summoner disappeared in an emerald flash on the heels of that mocking salutation. She channeled her frustration into the still-simmering sphere, willing it to consume the sinewy web with an annoyed flick of her wrist. Ruadhri made quick work of what remained of the ensnared owlbear, bringing the hilltop glen to an eerie silence–abrupt punctuation to another scrape with death. 

Seleniniel scanned the clearing, checking the butcher’s bill.. adrenaline spiked for a moment at the still-twitching legs of the swollen insects, then relaxed, eyes moved on, hand shielding against the sun as she scanned the treeline for more of the conjurer’s playthings. Wind whipped their leaves into a frenzy, wildly kinetic dance mockingly juxtaposed to the now-sluggish figures ringed within the circle of dancing branches–figures slowly recomposing, stitching themselves back together… as always in such aftermaths. The blackwings remained, now silently watching, but no more. 

Satisfied, she turned to the half-burnt ring of fungi–apparently imbued to whisk their master who-knows-how-many leagues. Aikinaro. All that for nothing. She studied the ring, turned to look over her shoulder at the others, quietly conversing, subdued after such a pyrrhic victory.. if even that. Seleniniel felt.. something akin to sympathy for Arathea’s loss, but now was not the time, nor she the type, to indulge the bladesinger’s self pity.. or loathing. This haun needed to be put down, or they’d wasted time, distance.. loss.. for nothing. He would rebuild, resurrect, repoison the woods they’d so nobly, or foolishly, sought to rid of his taint… Sarigraamin. This is not the end. Impulsively, she took an exaggerated step into the ring, hiking her robehem over the mushrooms, subconsciously holding her breath in anticipation. 

Nothing. Exhale. A look over her shoulder, eyes narrowing in Isilmewen’s direction, but for once, saw no merriment in those eyes–sorrow and sympathy instead, apparently meant for Arathea. She was not the only one. Seleniniel sighed. What a gods damned disaster. She did not join them. She knew of the bladesingers’ bond. Arathea had lost a part of herself today. Seleniniel looked down at her arm… the left.. mentally flexed fingers lost more than a century past, embracing the phantom pain. Nothing she could say would help Arathea… Today, at least. 

Content to wait, Seleniniel sat cross leg in the grass in the center of the circle. She shook her robe sleeve down over her hand, careful to avoid skin contact as she plucked one of the overlarge purple and green mushrooms from the earth, grasping at its base to wrench as much of it loose as she could manage. It left a smear of ash on her robe sleeve as she deposited it into one of her inner robe pockets for later... use. You never know. She then began trying to discern what, if any, magical residual the old syl had left in this pocket of the forest. 

[[begins to cast Detect Magic, focusing on the mushroom ring first but then scanning around to see if there's anything else that might help tracking this guy down]]

The mood around the camp was decidedly sullen if not altogether dismal. Even Isilmewen, whom Dak could always depend on for a laugh, seemed in dour temper and the halfling found that more than a little unsettling. It was understandable, of course, considering Arathea’s perceived dishonoring of her blade and the disturbing nature of the mycelian infection that afflicted Ruadhri’s wounds, but for there not to have been so much as a single quip made to provide a flicker of hopeful light in the post-battle gloom…

This seems more unnatural than even the mad cleric and his minions, he chuffed to himself as he hunkered down at the edge of their meager fire and lit his pipe, Even a bit of condescending snark from Seleniniel wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome, just now… He allowed himself a faint chuckle at the unspoken jape – the gust of it blowing a ring of smoke past his lips which briefly framed the one-handed mage – but it, too, was far from mirthful. The pervading pall, it seemed, was quickly steeping into even his bones.

Puffing away on his pipe, Dak reclined against his pack and set his gaze to wandering about the site. It settled, first, on where Rosariel and Mae’rel hovered about the bofear, tending those wounds that even the blessings of the Huntress and the Blue Lady seemed unable to mend, and discussing other treatments which might counter the creeping fungal affliction. They spoke of herbs and poultices and other things that were beyond the little Cidal’s ken, though he did listen for a time, at least, until Isilmewen offered her aid in foraging for some of the components the clerics had mentioned. “Sheilin smile on you, Lala,” he said, offering her an encouraging nod and appreciative smile as the ranger gathered her things to set off on that endeavor. “I’d offer to come with you, but I haven’t the faintest inkling as to what I’d be looking for,” he added before she slipped out of the fire’s light and into the penumbra between the trees, “The only thing I might provide is company, I’m afraid.”

((OOC: Anything or nothing here as Rer (or anyone else) sees fit. Replies and/or reactions can be addressed in follow-up posts as needed.))

Clenching the stem of his pipe between his teeth, Dak leaned forward, took up a stick, and stoked the fire with it before adding it to the flames. When his eyes lifted from that task, they fell upon the bladesinger where she sat brooding, the sword loaned to her by Isilmewen resting across her knees, and the one she had ‘lost,’ still wrapped in the shroud Mae’rel had provided it, lying nearby, little more than arms reach away. She bears her misery well, he thought, watching as Arathea cast a melancholy glance at the bundled blade before refocusing her attention on attuning herself with the borrowed one, Outwardly, at least, she doesn’t wallow in it. He would have given a handful of silvers for a glimpse at her inward thoughts, though, if only to see just how much of the swordsmistress’ stoicism was but a mask. He’d have doubled that handful, too, if he could find his way to any words that might assuage her grief, but Dak had a feeling that all the silver in Antaron would buy such a thing right now.

He hid a discouraged sigh behind the façade of blowing another ring of pipe smoke into the air and forced his gaze to travel on. It settled, of course, on Seleniniel where she sat, huddled in her charcoal-colored robes, her stern visage shifting only occasionally as she mulled over whatever dark musings might be snaking through her mind. “You’re unusually quiet, tonight, Mistress Isil’nari,” he observed, a wry smirk forming around the stem of his pipe, “Not that you are terribly verbose most times, of course, but it has been hours since you’ve cast so much as a disapproving scowl my way. I’m beginning to feel invisible. A copper for your thoughts?”

((OOC: Again... anything or nothing, here. Just figured I'd get the ball rolling, so to speak. I made a few assumptions while writing this out, so if I need to edit or adjust anything, feel free to let me know.))

Mae'rel had dealt with fungal infections in the past. While it was true that a Cure Wounds spell did not heal these 'infections', getting rid of them was often quite simple. A combination of local herbs, salt, and heat would do the trick almost always, and when it did not, Master Ignacio used a greater miracle in order to cure them. Fungus were fascinating at the least, more similar to animals then they were to most plants, but they functioned different from both. She had always been interested in them, as many types were useful in healing, or at least, in health. Something like this though, she had never seen before. Most fungus couldn't survive in the body and if they could, the immune system kept them at bay, and a quick fever would kill them.

She contemplated her options. The location meant that, even desperate, amputation wouldn't work. The nearest cleric which could heal something like this also was likely too far if it was to keep progressing. The thought of a fully-controlled barbaric bull didn't exactly sit well either.. The best bet would be to cauterize the wound aggressively, and admittedly, painfully. Follow up with a generous application of salt, and a medical poulitice made from local plants. Keeping him in the sun or heat as much as possible after that would hopefully reduce the effects, slow the growth, or even kill the fungus until they could reach a cleric, if they hadn't been able to fully handle it.

"Madam Isilmewen. I do not know these lands as you do, but if I'm to slow this growth, I will need plants. I'm not certain, as I said, of what grows here, but I first will need either garlic, 'Ignixavo', or Shineleaves as a base. I'll also need common river moss, 'Eyndra' , 'Feyilux', and 'Naelinda'. If some of those aren't local, I can provide substitutes. Is this in your skillset to find?"

(OOC: Assuming our fair lady will find them, Mae'rel will provide substitutes if some of them aren't local.)

"My thanks. Ruadhiri, I'll need to cauterize the wound in order to slow, possibly even kill the fungus, then salt it. I'm not certain, your people have the phrase, but 'putting salt in a wound' is based in truth. This will hurt, though I trust your strength will not be thrwarted by myself and a bit of heat?" She offered a gentle laugh, the first she had actually made since she had joined this group, at least in their presence, hoping to bring the mood up.

(OOC: Assuming Ruadhiri accepts)

"Very well. Here, I'll attend to Madam Arathea. In the meanwhile, I suggest you should prepare. When our Ranger returns, we'll purge that blight from your wounds." Mae'rel vowed, before deciding it would be worthwhile to check in on their bladesinger, who was likely struggling still with her own wounds, which were also no doubt, difficult to heal.

"Your skill with a blade is quite something, Madam Arathea." She started, before contemplating her words, deciding that was perhaps not the best route of conversation. "I'm not sure.. if they have time for such things in the Royal Houses, but.. something that often helps me clear my mind is to look up at the Heavens. The stars. To think back on the good I have accomplished, rather then to think on my failures."

Arathea worried for her companion in Ruadhrí, the infection was highly concerning, the more she overheard the worse it seemed. But how much could she do truly? This remained a job for the healers of the party, though Arathea devised plans in her head for the scenario that Ruadhrí somehow were to succumb to these wounds and become one of those... things. It was an unpleasant thought, and Arathea was not particularly thrilled at the prospect but once more she knew it was not within her power to prevent it, she simply hoped they could make it to Hyanda Nost and find aid. Her thoughts about Ruadhrí were ended with Mae'rel approaching her, Arathea offered a slight smile in return and a nod, once again trying to conceal her inner thoughts. "Thank you, Lady Mae'real, I will hold that in mind," was all she offered as a response, she didn't want to dwell anymore on it but, it seemed impossible to escape.

Moving to camp felt like it took months, the world still felt so slow, so broken. All the colors were blurred together to Arathea, like the world had turned into one massive piece of abstract art. The sounds of the forest barely seemed to grace her ears, all things that previously would have been appreciated, or at the very least noticed, seem to matter little to her anymore. Instead her mind drifted, wandering back to the moment she had failed, no matter how hard she tried to supress it she couldn't keep it from coming back to mind. It was all consuming, it rendered her almost numb to the rest of the world as the memory just kept replaying over and over again.

The only thing that broke her from it was the sight of the raven, that damned raven that had been there just before the fight with the witch. That horrible animal was nothing but a bad omen to Arathea, it had to be connected to the disgusting hobble of a man who had helped bring this all on. Arathea felt rage boiling in her, she wanted to pick up a rock and throw it at the bird, to clip it's wings and kill the animal. But she breathed in deep, it was unbecoming of her to think of such things, let alone act on them. Her mistakes were only her own, all the blame lied upon herself in her eyes... this was all her failure.

She attempted to find privacy, moving away to practice her eighty nine steps, practice the bladesong and keep her skills sharp. But every swing with this blade was so wrong, every step felt so off, everything felt so broken to her. She remembered the words Mae'rel had given, to look up at the stars, but the stars did not offer solace. She felt so alone, so hopeless, she cried out to herself with no intention for anyone else to hear. "Damn you Arathea, damn you," she stated, feeling the weight of it all coming down like a crashing wave, just as it had before. 

While she had found the spot suitable for a camp, Isilmewen's nerves still felt taught. She knew the watcher still had eyes on them, but there was little that could be done about that at the moment. Not with the urgency of setting up a place for respite. Though the thought did occur to her, perhaps she'd settle on some target practise later. She somehow doubted that the same protections woven around the old Syl were on the crow. After helping set up the campsite, Isilmewen went to Mae'rel and Rosariel to see if they needed any aid.

"Madam Isilmewen. I do not know these lands as you do, but if I'm to slow this growth, I will need plants. [..] Is this in your skillset to find?"

Isilmewen paid careful attention to Mae'rel's request, nodding slowly, “Would you describe them to me in full? I will seek out what may be found nearby,” She looked over to the normally stalwart Raudhri and nodded again, “I'll do whatever I can.”

After receiving the specifics to aid her successful idenfication of the specific plants, and upon hearing Dak's offer to accompany her, Isilmewen wandered over to the Cidal, offering gentle smile.

“Dear Dak, company certainly wouldn't go amiss, but seeing as this time I must go about it with some haste, it's not like to be a familiar moonlit stroll,” Isilmewen giggled, before lowering her voice a bit, “Keep look out over the others while I search. Mae'rel and Rosariel have their attentions occupied; Raudhri and Arathea are in pain; and Seleliniel may be preoccupied with knowledges esoteric for use against this adversary.”

((room for more from anyone))

Grabbing her bow and pack once more, the woodland ranger set out for a bit in order to find suitable plants for Mae'rel's use. On her return, Isilmewen offered whatever it was she was able to Mae'rel, before taking another stroll around the nearby area.

It was then, on her improvised patrol, that she came across and heard Arathea's lament.

“There are damnable things, to be sure, but you are most certainly not one of them,” Isilmewen offered with a soft laugh, leaning against a nearby tree.

((ping @ Arathea ))

As the moonshade patiently coaxed her everwhirling gears slower, a rare memory of childhood sprung to fill the welcome emptiness, resurrected from a long neglected grave. Her father, reading the parable of House Galanmin, first of the Children to treat with the Anathari.. the k’goth.. appeasement to the insatiable, so easily judged these millennia later. Yet the parable's epilogue had always stuck with her, long after she'd discarded the rest of his clumsy lessons–his romantic simulacrum of wisdom so earnestly imparted.. for her. And Alwendiel….. 

The sharp edges of her name cut less, but still…. 

Her father’s voice returned. Each byway to those damned halls of Ristlar el Ba ar'Guina, is paved with noble fools as these; yet so too the everyshifting star-way to ascend. The leaf, incautious for Adaron’s embrace; so too the dreamer, whose vision bears its weight, or not, but never if undreamed. 

Which are we, I wonder. The day seemed to offer an easy answer. Yet, his voice again… My child of stars and time, no story tells the same tale twice. The corners of her mouth softened as the natural and chemical milieu of her brain betraying her so-consciously constructed veneer. She realized it a moment later. Sarigraamin. Glaring down at the pouch in her lap. Why the hells did you dredge that up. The memory left her with the same flooding sadness and loss that always accompanied Him… and Her–a reminder to maintain her levees more diligently. Clenching her jaw anew, Get you s*** together. 

Silhouetted movement from the encircled fire caught her eye, she watched Arathea stalk off. Her new blade held hostilely, a bastard she’d nurture from guilt, not love. Then to Ruadhri, pecked over by the priests, yet he seemed… unperturbed. Seleniniel had seen the wound, heard the whispers, surmised the likely outcome. Ruadhri surely had too. Perhaps he welcomed it. She’d seen what he carried.. Still, better ways to die than a mindless extension of that godsdamned feeble conjurer’s ego. Better for Ruadhri. And them. 

She heard a quiet simper from the ranger, no doubt prompted by some childish quip from the cid. Pah. She glared, but her heart wasn’t in it. Seleneniel heard the faint brush of branches against the ranger’s cloak, then nothing, as she melted into the night. A moment later, soft footfalls that could only be the cid, true to his surname. “You’re unusually quiet, tonight, Mistress Isil’nari,” he carried on in his usual canter, though, she thought, a tinge more wariness than he normally wore… “A copper for your thoughts?”

“You know we’ll have to kill him if it comes to that. You and I, I mean. I’m not sure the rest will." "He’d want it. Same for me if I’m ever on the cusp of that.” She nodded in Ruadhri’s direction, then studied those emerald eyes to gauge whether he could stomach it. “I hope it doesn’t come to that… I like him more than you.” She let the implication sink in. “But only fools trust in gods and hope.” She flexed the fingers of her right hand. “I’m not spent yet, and you should rest warily tonight too.” Eyes drifted back to the firelight. “Probably best to squirrel away his weapons if he drifts off. I trust you’re up to that task.” It wasn’t a question, but she nevertheless gave him a chance to finally respond.

[[dak-a-tag]]

Ruadhrí sat by the campfire, cat in his lap and petting it softly in an attempt to calm his nerves. Ruadrhí mind drifted from trouble to trouble from those that have passed and are still yet to come. As his hand brushed over the soft furs of the cat, his pupils grew large from the darkness, mind and body.

The Nograd blitz, a small town near the western borders of Sendria turned to a blood bath at the Bofír's arrival. Ruadhrí and the other pathfinders were only down some three men-high numbers considering how few made it to where they are now-they set camp no more than a half-mile from the town, knowing there would be no warm welcome... at least, not the kind you'd want.

They laid scouts and waited for they're return, yeilding that the town was on lockdown and every able bodied man in chain and spear. Ruadhrí suspected this as his people weren't exactly the quietest but what they got was not in any way an outcome he would have thought of, for the Sendrians did what they do and laid a trap.

The fire crackled and ashes kicked as Seleneniel spoke and Riadhrí heard, but did not process for he was there again. He looked down at his muddied trowsers and great ax as he watched the pathfinders charged and he joined in, mud kicking up behind him like a mud-truck as the rain came down in buckets. They busted through the front guard like nothing, putting the rag-tag soldiers face-first in the mud in moments before moving into the town.

Ruadhrí moved with purpose as they searched for any remaining threats, looking to clean the town of all resisters so they could move the caravan without attracting attention to the civilians. They belowed in victory, the sendrians running with their tail between their legs and all was won... until there was a flash of orange that sailed through the air and the black mud at his feet lit.

Oil poured and mixed with the rain and mud, spreading it all over the ground of the town and Ruadhrí screamed for them to run but it was too little too late. His pathfinders tried to charge out of the gate but in moments they rolled on the ground screaming in pure agony like he had never heard, fleeing out the front gate with whatever men could before collapsing and sucumming to the flame that raged on their bodies. Nograd was a grave for many friends, its flames dancing on the grounds of his mind every time he unshethed his Ax.

Suddenly, Ruadhrí snapped out of it, wincing slightly and holding his chest. Lennox's warmth was welcome yet the fact he kept moving irritated Ruadhrí's wounds long enough for him to notice the monk explaining how she planned to kill the burning pain in his chest. "I do not care what it takes, kill it..." Ruadhrí's words made him sound like he did not consider what this would cost, but in truth he didn't, he knew if he turned it would spell disaster and enact a pain onto a companian to fell him he wouldn't put on his worst enemy.

Ruadhrí's mind drifted to the onr armed mage, so confident she could kill him if he turned, or rather when for Ruadhrí may have hoped he would be cured but in truth he had all-but no faith in the chance he'd be cured in time. Ruadhí stood up and walked over to the mage. "I would have words with you, Selenenial"

(Assuming she follows) "You and I both know how dire this is and I have little faith heat and some salt will do anything but make the flesh over-easy." Ruadhrí whispered at the edge of the fire light, leaning down " If and if we are being realistic when it worsens, I would rather you kill me and burn me. You are the most practical, you won't waste energy fighting me if you can avoid it... and I'd rather be cinders than have that fate. Will you promise me if it comes down to it, still my heart and destroy my flesh to avoid a broken verion?" Every word was laced with an edge matching his weapon, determined to showcase just how serious he was in these words.

Rosariel stood over the bodies of the dead; monstrosities borne from the sick experiments that cleric had pursued, as well as Taudor Salka’s own creatures twisted to his wicked whims. She moved to stand above the corrupted Sylvari, a network of mycelia still brilliant against the ravages of undead flesh beneath… more victims of a mad creature given too much power. Crouching beside them, Rosariel clutched the portion of stag antler that hung against her chest and recited a prayer to the Huntress, urging her to guide their souls through the gates their own gods had lost them upon their first death.

Take them, Woodland Dancer, into the wilds beyond where they may live once more in the freedom of your wild domain.

She stood once again, hoping her words might still hold some merit, her mind wandering back both to their bovine ally, and her failed channel attempt during the attack. Had her resolve been stronger, her connection to Taudor Salka been stronger, they could have turned the undead puppets before they had had a chance to harm her comrades. Her thoughts drifted to places she did not enjoy, reminders that she had not had proper training as a priest of the Huntress, just texts she was left to learn and interpret the best she could. She had declared herself a Hunter of the Stag and priestess after performing rituals that should have been overseen and scrutinized by a proper priest of their goddess. Perhaps if she had had better training, taught the right way to perform the blessings and miracles she knew the goddess was capable of providing; if she wasn’t so incompetent in her work, perhaps then Ruadhrí would not be left to suffer, perhaps she could have provided Arathea with enough support that she would not have had to lose her blade.

Rosariel sighed in frustration as her eyes flitted over Seleniniel in the circle the cleric had vanished from, fiddling with the ring of mushrooms. Self-pity would get her nowhere, and her companions would hardly benefit from a wallowing priest at their side. She had come this far on her own, and the Dancer had shown favor enough to grant her miraculous abilities. Study and prayer. That’s how she had come this far, and that was how she would save her friends.

With one last glance at the twisted creatures she wished there was time to burn, she rejoined their group as Isilmewen led them out of the tainted grove. Their trek was thankfully far less eventful, though another - or perhaps the same - large crow perched above them, squawking gleefully, taunting them with the dark omen of its presence. Rosariel swiftly reached back for her bow, but it fled before any of them could react to it.

Camp was as solemn as the journey from the grove, the low urgency with which Mae’rel directed Rosariel to assist with Ruadhrí being the only spoken words she had heard since they had arrived. As Isilmewen disappeared into the woods, she too escaped into the solitude of the forest, both searching her snares for any luck in providing their troop a small, warm meal for the night, as well as to seek comfort in the solitude of her goddess’ domain--a much needed source of relief after a day like this one.

Later, as she took the first bite of her meal, Tubs poked his head out of her hood for the first time since before the grove, his stomach out-matching his cowardice every time. Handing him a cracker she returned her gaze to the rest of their camp. Isilmewen and Arathea still gone, Ruadhrí and Mae’rel in their own thoughts, Seleniniel and Dak murmuring softly to each other, she wondered about their next steps. Ruadhrí needed to be taken care of, though their closest chance for assistance resided over a week away. There was their original quest of course, but how long before that old cleric found more trouble? Created or twisted more beasts? And even if they wanted to track him, how could they? That damn mushroom circle…

Her eyes darted back up to where Dak and Seleniniel spoke and the memory of the mage fiddling with that ring of mushrooms came back to her. It wasn’t much, but maybe she could provide some information on the arcane front regarding that sort of magic. It was unlike anything Rosariel had seen at least. She looked down at herself and brushed the crumbs off the front of her furs, not wanting to provide any more reason for their surly mage to look at her with that uncomfortable, angry look she always seemed to give her and Tubs without even the slightest provocation. However, as she stood to make her way over to the Syl and the Cidal, the Bofear approached the two and Seleniniel followed him away for a conversation. She assumed.

Rosariel sighed and pet the top of Tubs’ head when his whiskers tickled the side of her neck. Study and prayer, she reminded herself, that is how I can become stronger, that is how I can help them best. She sat once more before the fire and reached into her pack for one of the few books she had brought along from the trove she had accumulated over the years from traders visiting her small village. Cross-legged, she set the book in her lap for the light of the fire to hit as much of it as she could get it to, and began to study.

Isilmewen’s parting instructions to the halfling were unnecessary, Dak was always watching, always observing everyone and everything that came into his orbit. It was what he did, after all, and he was very good at it. His aptitude for surveillance and assessment, if fact, was the primary reason that Sanfir had sent him to Sylvaria to begin with. Despite the needlessness of the ranger’s request, though, he had offered her an affable smile and assurances that he would do just as she asked. Following her departure, he spent long moments scrutinizing the party before focusing his attention on Seleniniel, engaging her with the banter she was accustomed to from him.

“…A copper for your thoughts?”

“You know we’ll have to kill him if it comes to that. You and I, I mean. I’m not sure the rest will,” the mage replied quicker than he was expecting but as brusquely as ever, “He’d want it. Same for me if I’m ever on the cusp of that.” She inclined her head in the Bofear’s direction, though her eye’s remained fixed on Dak’s, boring into him as if reading his thoughts on the matter to determine if they matched his words.

“Just so,” the cid nodded, casting a glance of his own in Ruahdri’s direction, a cloud of pipe smoke whirling into the air on the back of a sigh, “I think all of us, here, would prefer a quicker and more permanent end in such a case…”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” she continued, drawing his gaze back to her, “I like him more than you… But only fools trust in gods and hope.”

“It is lucky, then, that my part in all of this isn’t contingent on your liking me, arwenamin,” he chuckled softly, poking at the contents of his pipe with the end of a twig he’d scooped from the litter upon which they sat, “And, for all it may matter to you, gods and hope are far down on the list of things in which I place my trust…”

“I’m not spent yet, and you should rest warily tonight too,” the mage suggested as her hooded gaze wandered back to the firelight, “Probably best to squirrel away his weapons if he drifts off. I trust you’re up to that task.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was any other way to rest,” Dak smirked around the stem of his pipe, his own eyes lifting to the shadowed boughs above them, drawn there by the faint popping of beating wings and rustling of foliage, “especially in situations such as we find ourselves in, hm? As to squirreling away his weapons,” the halfling’s gaze abandoned the canopy, made its way back to Ruahdri, and he rolled his shoulders beneath his cloak in an ambiguous shrug, “I certainly will should it seem necessary, though I don’t think it wise to separate one of our better fighters from the tools of his trade without a measure of certainty, especially with our bladesinger as… diminished as she seems, now…” He puffed the remains of his pipe into nothingness, tapped the bowl out against his knee and, lifting a brow, offered Seleniniel a grin of surety. “I’ll be vigilant in my observations, Mistress Isil’nari,” he promised, “of that you can be sure. Should the darker fears you have appear to come about, he’ll not find his weapons anywhere within reach.”

It had been an hour, maybe more before their ranger returned with the herbs requested, at least, some of them anyhow. Mae'rel didn't know exactly what she was going to be able to do against this affliction with things that only treated your standard fungal infection, but she hoped that she could buy time if nothing else, and so that was exactly what she moved to do.

Approaching Ruadhiri, she gave a subtle nod of her masked face. It was poor bedside manner, in many's eyes, to hide your face from someone you were tending to. And yet, it was both part of her identity as a healer, her anonymity, her vow to keep the good she did associated not just with Lady Lysora, but with the concept of empathy as a whole. When people thought of Mae'rels deeds, she didn't want their thoughts to be of her. Master Ignacio always said that if that was the case, you had failed. That by keeping yourself as simply a messenger of good, others would pass that same good along.

When their horned warrior prepared himself, Mae'rel applied a slight numbing agent, a remedy of some non-local herbs, which she always kept a bottle of. It was almost like a gel, as opposed to a thick plant concoction. Of course, once she pressed the heated blade against his itching wound, it did very little to help the pain, a hiss immediate, and steam shooting from the wound with a wretched smell. After properly cauterizing the area, she applied salt directly after, which would make the pain even worse, before finally applying the now orange poultice, made with the herbs that their Ranger had brought forth.

It would be difficult to tell immediately whether there was any relief. It could take minutes. Hours. It could even take days to see if it stopped or lessened. But if it took that long to see any improvement, that did mean that, at the least, it had prevented it from worsening.

The only other solution Mae'rel could propose was a fabled plant. Aranthea's Heart. A powerful healing flower, unassuming, made from the essence of one of the Blue Lady's very own servants, after she had passed. The flower wasn't quite mythical in rarity, but Mae'rel had never seen one in the wild herself. However, Master Ignacio allegedly had used some when he couldn't procure anymore miracles for Coria, to ease the illness on some of the many poor in those wretched slums. If nothing else, in some cases, it eased their passing.

She would look for it, where she could. And a description of it to their ranger wouldn't go amiss either.

(OOC: I have no dialogue brain right now so, Mae'rel will provide a description of the plant to Rosariel and Isilmewen. )

The cid maintained his levity–in its usual dissonance with the ambient mood. Hearing out his verbose equivocation, she shrugged. “As you say.” I’ll do it myself if needed. Then a curt upward nod of her chin pointed him to the lumbering Ruadhri, quitting his fireside mending to join them. “I would have words with you, Selenenial,” his frankness a refreshing palate cleanser after the cid’s sugary circumlocution. She pushed herself standing, leaf pouch tucked into robe as she rose. A querying glance down to the cid, but his face had slipped into that deferential mask he donned for the “big folk.” Like a hollow smile, the obsequious facade did not reach those emerald eyes. They twinkled, as always, with that hidden jest ever only shared with himself. She left him to his droll musings as she took Ruadhri’s leave.

A handful of paces, then he turned with an earnest whisper that almost cracked a sardonic smile from her, the lilting baritone resonating for any who cared to listen. "You and I both know how dire this is." She released the wry thought, reflecting his earnestness–respect for his grim fate and grim determination to bear it. “If it comes down to it, still my heart and destroy my flesh." She nodded. “I will.” Empty coddling would be more insulting than a smile. After a pregnant pause. “There’s an old saying I learned from a friend.” She drew her robe sleeve up to reveal her left arm, indicating the tattoo spriling from her ruined elbow, just visible in the star and firelight. “From an old human–old for them. It says, ‘If life transcends death, I will find you there. If not, then there too.’” She looked into his eyes–ones she knew bore something akin to her own burdens. Shook down the robesleeve, then shrugged. “A bit sacrilegious for us syl, but it suits me.” She let the silence stretch. He was not the type to fill it with useless words. “I’ve often envied them. Humans. They don’t… linger… like us.” She sat with him in silence, watching the fire burn itself out, morbidly wondering if it foreshadowed the process quietly consuming the quiet giant beside her. 

Arathea turned to Isilmewen, hearing the words she offered. Something to comfort a wounded soul, something to help her feel less weary. Words could only do so much, but it was something to help weather the storm. Isilmewen was counted among friends, and her empathy was valued. “There are damnable things, to be sure, but you are most certainly not one of them,” she said, prompting Arathea to give a weary smile. "I appreciate the sentiment, I do... but still this all feels so empty. The world seems like the color that once made it so vibrant has faded, like everything is in grayscale."

The conversation would go on, "You know, you're as taut as a bowstring, and have been for the past while. While pushing yourself is a strength, likewise you need to allow yourself rest and reprieve. If it would help, I can be here and listen, to whatever you like." Isilmewen said to her, it wasn't going to fix the world yet, it made it more bearable. Having someone there to listen, having someone to understand, it was relieving. "Thank you," Araethea began. "I know I've not been the easiest, but you make it easier. I might take you up on that offer sometimes, though I must admit it's not something I'm very used to; outside my father I've not often truly confided in other people. Sure sometimes I will put my feelings into words on paper but, it is nice to take council in someone else." Arathea offered a gentle pat on Isilmewens shoulder, then finally made her way back into camp, managing to actually sleep that night. (@Isilmewen, I know you sent this line to me I think as an offer to use it in my post, but if not I will edit it out) 

******

The days of travel that followed were brutal, but day by day Arathea found herself able to move with more and more confidence. She was not her usual self still, but the feeling of total despair was fading. Yet as she overcame what seemed to be the absolute worst of her own trials, the group faced a much stronger roadblock. Ruadhrí was dying, and every day it worsened deeper and deeper. Arathea came to realize the harsh reality, unless a miracle came her companion would succumb to this illness, dying and more than likely rising as some freakish being. It was an uncomfortable thought, a tragedy in the making, yet strength was required. She was at peace with the reality that she may very well have to strike him down.

But then the miracle did arrive, or what could be percieved as such at the very least. This figure seemigly made of shadow, it was nothing like Arathea had ever seen or ever heard of before. It stood tall and despite how thin it was it felt deeply intimidating, Arathea gauged the being was likely very powerful. She quickly began to place dots around in her head, it was an enemy of what it called the 'Forest Wytch', which was no doubt the horrific "priest" which the group had previously fought. Furthermore it had been observing the group since the battle with this wytch, and since then there had only been one more raven and no more battles fought with any monsters or creatures of the forest. Perhaps this being was warding them off? Or perhaps if they sensed it's mere presence it wouldn't even need to intentionally remove them. No matter what, there seemed to be common interest.

Arathea had suspiscions, those so deeply caught up in the service of the forest often cared little for servicing the nation, and she calculated that since this being only showed up in the last desperate hour of Ruadhrí this was far from an offer made mainly of good will, no this was an offer that was mainly strategic. Still the favor being asked would save her companions life, and who could know, perhaps the favor could involve getting back at the wytch of the land, something Arathea was very keen on. Raising her voice resolutely to the being and to her companions Arathea spoke plain, "I support this offer. The life of my companion is dear to me, I am willing to pay a debt for his survival."

"So yours is the gaze I've felt for the past while," Isilmewen mused. She didn't know to what she spoke. She could feel the age and distance in that otherworldly gaze, idly wondering if the group were as ants to it. She liked to categorize things on their role. Predator, prey, scavenger, and so on. These were roles she could understand, and she knew herself and other Sylvari as predator and prey both, as bees with busy city hives. This being, however, so far defied classification. 

Looking to the others, Isilmewen would add, "If they had ill intent towards us, they could've acted far sooner. And just as how we're wary," the same how the wounded predator is most dangerous to approach, "They likely have like reason to wait and observe as well," Isilmewen reasoned.

"I am in agreement as well," Isilmewen concluded.

And what kind of devotee to the Lady of Fortune would I be if I wasn't willing to throw caution aside, hoping for the best from a chance encounter?